The 73rd Hunger Games
by MagicBlast
Summary: Why didn't District 12 have a winner until Katniss and Peeta? Surely, the other contestants were half as smart as Haymitch? Perhaps it was a matter of bad luck or simply an ill-fated doom? Better explanation inside. Rating may change due to language
1. Ever the Odds

**The 73rd Hunger Games**

I do not own The Hunger Games. All rights have been reserved to Suzanne Collins for creating one of the best stories I have ever read. Although I claim to own the characters in this fiction, I technically do not because had it not been for Suzanne Collins' creation, they would not exist. So in a way, she owns them as well. I have also taken the idea of this story from a fiction I have noticed posted by Shadowcaster4444. Sorry, Shadowcaster - I genuinely am - but you have inspired me to create my own attempt at your idea. Forgive me. Partial credit will go to you and reviews (if I get any) will also be expected in your direction.

Set pre-Hunger Games. I had this idea niggling at the back of my mind to make a spin on the 'star-crossed lovers' title bestowed on Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. So I got a crazy idea to make my own 'star-crossed lovers' who were forced into the Hunger Games. Because I want to make this fiction as believable as possible, it will be set in District 12, just like in the book.

I'm sorry if I sound arrogant. I really don't intend to.

Thank you for reading.

Edit: This is the first draft of the first chapter, so it's shorter than what I initially planned, but it's still being fleshed out.

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**01: **_Ever_ the Odds

"… and may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

It takes all the moral fibre in my body to hold back a groan of contempt. Effie Trinket. The pink-haired diva who "graces us with her presence" every Reaping. Anyone with functioning eyes can tell that she's wearing a wig, though you need a lot more than good eyesight to guess what might be the reason exactly _why _she insists on wearing the magenta-hued monstrosity on her head. Perhaps she has something to hide? A terrible haircut, perhaps? A head covered in venomous snakes?

I smile to myself a little at my comparison between her and Medusa. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she secretly were a demon from mythological legends because that would explain why we're being rounded up like helpless sheep about to be sacrificed to the Minotaur. Oh, no, wait. It has nothing to do with the Minotaur. It's the annual Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games is a televised 'game show' where contestants - they are often referred to as "tributes" to disguise their true identities; "sacrifices" - selected from all twelve Districts are thrown together in an arena, expected to fight to the death.

It was the Capitol's way of saying a big "fuck you" to the districts after their rebellion. As a result of this mutiny, District 13 had been obliterated and every year two individuals - one boy, one girl - from the remaining twelve districts between the ages of twelve to eighteen are drawn from two glass balls to "participate" in Hunger Games.

So now here we are again. Just like last year… and the year before that.

The crowd are suddenly silent when a female name has been drawn. Not that they could be more silent than they were before. Unlike everyone else here, I'm not too worried. I have no siblings who could be in danger of being selected for the Games. The only one who is in the line of any potential threat is me, but so far I have managed to go through five years of Reaping without having my name be the one taken out.

I suppose the odds were _ever_ in my favour. But then again, considering the one who always makes this statement is Effie Trinket, I wouldn't hold my breath any time soon.

"Andromeda Heron."

I recognise that name. Andy. I've known her for the majority of my life. But by that I mean 'I've known _of _her' rather than know her personally. She's always been singled out by everyone at school because of her unusual name. No sane parent would call their daughter 'Andy'. The only other potential female Andy is Andrea Periwinkle, and even then Andy got picked on for being named after a separate galaxy rather than some other _Earth-related_ name.

No one makes a sound as Andy steadily makes her way to the stage. I have never known Andy to talk much. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the girl wasn't capable of talking at all considering all the communication she exchanges with other students involves lazy nods of her head.

Not that I've been watching or anything. You just notice these things.

Andy has quite a strange look about her, which is why I suppose the strange name rather suits. She has incredibly fair skin, white-blond hair and striking bright green eyes. She's not exactly overweight or stick-thin, as while being of a decent physique, it's visible that she's developed during puberty.

And now I'm immediately going to stop going on about Andy's body because I am currently at risk of being viewed as a potential pervert.

Despite the brave façade that Andy is trying so hard to uphold, I can still detect the trait of fear in her eyes. No one else has noticed - as far as I can tell - but then again, I suppose they're all currently preoccupied with dreading who the boy tribute may be.

Right on cue, Effie intones: "It's time to choose our boy tribu--."

"Andy!" a small voice shrieks from within the crowd. I don't care who it is, but I greatly like this person for being brave enough or stupid enough to interrupt Effie Trinket in the middle of a speech. "Andy!" a little boy, presumably about eight years old at best, whizzes out from the crowd and successfully latches himself onto Andy in a record-breaking time of ten seconds.

"Al," I can hear her murmur to him as she squeezes the boy for plausibly the last time. I didn't know Andy had a little brother. But then again, I suppose I would have known this if I had even talked to her once in a while. I try to keep my eyes on the glass ball where Effie is standing with impatience. It's known to everyone in District 12 that Effie hates us. She's only here because the Capitol haven't upped her to a far more wealthy district. Despite my best attempts to tune Andy's family crisis out, I can hear her mutter something incoherent to the boy which finally settles him down.

I hear Effie cough in discomfort but no one gives a damn. If we were to pick someone to sympathize with between Effie Trinket with her Capitol-bred lifestyle and a seventeen year old girl who is being sacrificed to entertain the bastards, we'd all pick Andy in a heartbeat. Sucks to be you, Effie.

To surprise myself, I'd like to know what she said. But I don't maul over it too much as I divert my attention to huddled group of pre-teen boys shivering together, like a pack of sheep trying to keep as far away as they can from the big bad wolf. Only the wolf is a ball where in which Effie Trinket has currently dipped her Capitol-manicured hand. I feel sorry for the young boys, I genuinely do. And I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling that hopes it's not one of them who has to face twenty-two better trained adolescents, as well as Andy.

However, I don't make the rules. I don't choose the names. If I had any say or authority in the Hunger Games I would select twenty-four children from the Capitol and pit them against each other. See how they feel about watching their children fight to the death year after year, knowing that no matter how much you may hope for their survival, only one of them is going to leave that arena alive.

"Seth Grady."

I swear, whatever God is out there favours the Capitol. I merely think of putting them through what we've had to deal with for seventy-three years and suddenly I'm the unlucky bastard who gets picked for the Hunger Games.

Oh well, at least it wasn't one of those boys. The oldest they could have been was thirteen and something tells me a half-starved poverty-stricken twelve-year-old wouldn't fare in the Games nearly as well as a wealthy and well-fed eighteen-year-old. The boys obviously recognise my name as in unison, they all look at with me with their wide, fearful eyes. And it takes me a second to realise that they're not afraid _of _me, they're afraid _for_ me.

And I have no either which is worse.


	2. Destinies Locked

**The 73rd Hunger Games**

_**Reviewer feedback:**_

**hungergamesfan51**

Thanks for your review. Oh, I know. That was the exact reason why I chose District 12. This story was created for the intention of getting the readers to almost familiarise and empathise with the characters, though knowing that it's only a matter of time before they die.

I hope you like this chapter. Like last chapter, this is the first draft and will be re-mastered at a later date.

Oh, one more note. I am a British writer, so the language I use may be slightly bizarre to American viewers. On the whole, everything should be completely understandable, but if there's any confusion, let me know. Thank you for reading.

**02: **Destinies Locked

As I make my way to the stage, I'm caught a little off guard by the overwhelming racing thoughts of _oh fuck I'm going to die I'm going to die on the big screen and the Capitol get to laugh and make bets on who's the one who gets to kill me_, which is perfectly understandable considering my current predicament.

After all, I'm probably going to die on public television.

My legs have officially turned into gelatinous mush. _Breathe now_, I try to remind myself in-sync with my pipe-bomb pulse, _one step at a time_. One leg in front of the other…

It feels like an eternity and a day before I'm standing next to Andy, and I'm aware that I now inherit that same fear in my eyes as I just moments ago glimpsed in hers. She seems to recognise me, and in this polite recognition, perhaps a reminder she's just as fucked as I am, she sends a knowing nod in my direction. I feel an odd amount of comfort in it.

This is the most interaction I have ever had with Andromeda Heron. I won't be surprised if it stays that way, considering that we're expected to kill each other once we enter the arena of the Capitol's choice.

Yeah, I wonder how on earth we're going to fit a worth-while conversation in there.

Haymitch hasn't arrived yet. Though, I'm not surprised if I'm honest. In the seventy-three years of the Hunger Games, he is the one of the only two tributes of District 12 who've actually come alive. The other one died long ago, presumably from old age or some other ailment that's related to lifelong luxury until rigor mortis bites you in the arse.

A drunken chant announces the official arrival of Haymitch. As expected, just like last year, the old bastard's completely intoxicated. It makes me wonder exactly what form of alcohol he consumes to get that delirious, or if he just chugs everything and anything he can get his hands on to make a certainly _interesting_ cocktail.

The aforementioned victorious tribute of District 12 hollers something incoherent as he stumbles, wobbling from side to side with every step, on to the stage and literally collapses into one of the chairs, proceeding to topple it over. Once again, District 12 is made a mockery of because our one living representation of our survival abilities is as drunken as you can get without requiring medical attention. Well, that's certainly a great start to this year's Hunger Games.

Mayor Undersee, who has been quiet since before the selection, merely attempts to cover his shamed face. He failed, as it's clear to all that he's just as enthusiastic about Haymitch's sudden entrance as everyone else here. The poor man. He's just been humiliated on public television again. Just like last year.

The magenta-haired demon delightfully known as Effie actually hasn't said anything in a while. I'm somewhat thankful, because for now I don't have to listen to her voice for at least a good few minutes. But chances are, knowing my current lucky streak, she's just prepping up for a very lengthy one-hour speech.

If that happens, just hand me a weapon and I'll save the Capitol the trouble of eliminating me.

In my moment of almost-considered-suicide, I notice the look of near-defiance that has emerged on Andy's features. Unlike a few moments ago, she appears resilient, rebellious, almost fearless. I suppose she has to act the part, as she has a little brother she needs to return to. If she can, that is. District 12 isn't exactly known for it's on-going survivors.

I don't doubt her abilities, but I think it's incredibly unlikely either of us are coming out of this alive.

***

After they managed to get Haymitch to recompose himself, the Reaping ceremony continues. They have even asked a few people from the crowd to help keep him seated so he doesn't try anything stupid. Though reluctant as they were, they did it, knowing that merely refusing this request could risk us having the same fate as the extinct District 13.

Mayor Undersee drawls out the Treaty of Treason that no one is really paying attention to. Everyone in the crowd is either making their best bets on who'll die first or hoping for at least one of us to come home. At this exact moment, the crowd's demeanour has shifted. First one, then several more, until every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to us. A sense of pride surges through me at this act. We may not be as rich or privileged as the other districts, but no one could ever accuse District 12 of being heartless. These people have souls. They care. They hate the Capitol to an immeasurable extent but they still care for each tribute who leaves to die.

It's touching. Minutes later, the mayor finishes intoning the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Andy and I to shake heads. Upon contact, a weird connection is formed and an atmosphere so intense develops, almost convincing me for a moment that it's only me and her.

"I'm here to win this," she says to me, her voice quiet and barely audible but I can still hear her, "I have to come back, for Al. I'll do everything I can to come back to him."

I believe you, Andy. And I hope you do.


	3. Neverending Anthem

**The 73rd Hunger Games**

Back again. This chapter will probably have yet more influence from _The Hunger Games_ to keep the plotline realistic and not have the characters descend into Marysueville (we all have to confess to creating one or two of those… I know I have); so I apologise in advance if it seems like I'm copying Suzanne Collins, I just want to stick to how she initially wrote it.

_**Soo, without further ado, on to the feedback section:**_

**hungergamesfan51**

Thanks. It didn't turn out as I originally planned it to, but I'm glad you reviewed again because it shows I didn't completely screw it up. Ehehehe…

**LC Black**

Thank you for being so honest in your review. I really appreciate it. Feel free to criticise whatever's out of place because otherwise I probably wouldn't learn from it if you don't.

I'm glad you like Seth. I wanted him to be the more intriguing character out of the two by putting everything in his perspective, and I'm really happy it worked.

Yeah, sorry about the 'god favouring Capitol' sentence. I didn't really plan that one out in advance and just typed it as I thought it. I'm actually hoping to re-write the chapters at a later date, so in the re-mastered version it should look better (if it doesn't, please let me know).

Thank you for the add. I know it's the typical response, but I'm genuinely surprised - I didn't think it would get such positive reviews 'cause when I skimmed through the two chapters I thought "needs work…" So I'm really honoured. Thank you again.

I tend to use incoherent a lot because it's one of my 'safe' words, but I'll use more variation in the future. Thanks for noting that.

Over all, thank you for your review. I hope you like this next chapter.

Oh, and this chapter's going to be longer than the other two. Yaay!

**03: **Never-ending Anthem

In a matter of milliseconds (well maybe I'm being a little too dramatic) we're frogmarched to the Justice Building. It makes me wonder what would happen if I attempted to leave now. I wouldn't be surprised if I get hunted down and be stripped bare while the cameras are still rolling. So I don't risk it.

After all, if I'm going to be forced into an arena with twenty-two bloodthirsty adolescents, I'd at least want to enter with some of my dignity in tact. That and I wouldn't want Andy to see me in the buff - probably the gender thing.

Yeah.

We're separated as I'm thrown into a strange new room alone. It's probably what Effie Trinket's bedroom looks like, because it's absolutely littered with ridiculous amounts of velvet. Velvet is a fabric my father is very familiar with as his cousin, Marybeth used to make dresses and other formalwear for the people in District 3. We sometimes get the odd package from Marybeth, containing beautifully crafted clothing tailored to our structures.

I'm busy fiddling with the ends of the delicate fabric when the door opens. "Hello, son." A wispy voice drifts into the room.

Oh damn. Should have seen this coming.

***

"It's hard to believe…" my mother murmurs with a sad smile, "… that now two of my children have been selected out of the thousands to be in the Hunger Games."

My older brother, Elipson, had been entered in the seventieth Hunger Games. He was always my parents' favourite. Elipson was smart, articulate, always got the best grades and the only thing he couldn't do was survive the Games. Like every year, the Careers tributes had formed alliances and successfully wiped out most of the competition. Elipson had been one of the five remaining tributes at the time, as he managed to outsmart them up until his demise.

Then came the day where the Career tributes had enough of being made a mockery of. So when Elipson was already wounded from an attack by a feral animal, all four of them had jumped him. He was brutally tortured, slaughtered and when they were done with him, he no longer resembled my brother.

My parents had suffered emotional and mental wounds from watching their eldest child be butchered on public television. They have never been the same since. In fact, until recently they had been in a near catatonic state when they realised they had to move on from their loss.

What were the chances that they'd have their second son be picked out from the thousands of names only three years later?

My father has been quiet this whole time. We only have a few minutes before they'll be asked to leave, and then I'll be alone again. I have never felt so isolated in my entire life.

Then the Peacekeepers open the door and order for them to leave. My mother touches my cheek tenderly, her eyes watering from unshed tears, before she rushes out of the room. My father drifts for a few seconds before turning to me.

"Seth."

I look up at him. He is at least a foot taller than my mother.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Try not to…" he starts, but then decides to use a different method, "Do what you can alright? Do your best to come back alive."

_Unlike Elipson_, we both think. I can tell he thought it too because he looks incredibly guilty straight afterwards.

"Goodbye son." He says, his eyes never wavering from me as he goes to leave.

"Goodbye dad." And he's gone. The door closes. Though surprisingly, it's not closed for long as I have another visitor.

I look in the direction of the door. It's a girl from my school who I've usually seen around Andy. I can't remember her name, but I've always thought of her as Cateyes because of her unusually feline irises.

"Um," Cateyes says, probably having second thoughts about seeing me instead of someone she's actually friends with. "I know this is going to sound stupid because you're going to wind up having to kill each other in the end, but…" she hesitates, then recomposes herself, "Look after her. Please. She's one of my best friends in the whole world and if you knew her - like properly _knew her_ - you'd understand why." She shifts from foot to foot.

I don't know what to say. This girl has just begged me to secure the safety of the other District 12 tribute when for all she knows I could be a deadly psychopath just counting down the minutes until I get to strike a knife into said tribute's back. Of course, this isn't true. I would never _want_ to hurt Andy, but that's not the point.

"Just try, ok?" Cateyes asks of me before letting herself out. The Peacekeepers didn't even need to prompt her.

It's another few minutes before I get a third visitor. Wow, I'm popular today. This time, it's one of the pre-teen boys who were huddled together at the Reaping. He can't look me in the eye, but I don't really mind. I can understand completely. It feels weird to attempt a connection with someone who's practically been given a death sentence.

"Um," he mumbles. For some reason everyone's starting their sentences with 'um' today. "I know you from school," he says after murmuring a few unintelligible sentences, "my big sister knew your brother… I think they were dating or something." Oh yeah, I forgot about Esmeralda. She and Elipson were together until he got whisked away at the seventieth Reaping.

"Anyway… um, I hope you win. But I also hope that girl wins as well…" Understandable. No one actually wants one of their two district tributes to kill the other.

Then, without a warning, he thrusts a clenched fist at me. I think for a moment that he's trying to give me a black eye or something, but to my surprise, instead he's roughly thrown an object into my open palm. I look, and it's a golden pocket watch engraved with the image of a phoenix. I wonder for a moment how someone from District 12 can afford such treasury, but upon closer inspection it shows that the pocket watch is broken and at least a few decades old.

"It's my grandmother's," he explains. "I was going to sell it at the market, but figured you should have it. You know, to remind you of home when you're out there."

Home. This is home. This wonderful, though poverty-stricken, place is home. "Thank you," I say, because I don't know what else to say to this boy. I clip the fastening of the watch onto one of the hoops of my trousers (another gift from Marybeth), then slip the watch itself into my pocket. He nods at me, then remains silent until the Peacekeepers ask him to leave.

I'm almost under the impression that another visitor will come, but after a few moments I realise that now I truly am alone.

***

When we arrive to the station, I'm slightly sickened at the sight of the many reporters who have come to take multiple pictures of my every move. After being temporarily blinded a good thousand times, I finally notice Andy who is standing only twenty feet from me. Another huddle of reporters with their freakish cameras swarm her, buzzing excitedly at the promise that she might cry in at least one of their photographs.

What bewilders me is her complete nonchalance of the situation, as if she's used to having so many cameras right in her face. To add to this, she actually gives a lazy smile and casts them a small wave. They're thrilled by this, because automatically even more camera flashes erupt and I swear I'm going to have vision problems by the time we actually enter the arena.

When we actually reach the train itself, I'm frustrated that we have to wait another few minutes before it opens. And once again I'm blinded by the flashes of the insistent and apparently insatiable photographers. The Capitol already have a million pictures of me, do they really need an extra million more? Andy, on the other hand, isn't too phased and actually poses for the odd photograph when they ask it of her. For some reason, this aggravates me. What right do they have to soak up her identity and exploit it? And why is she letting them?

I literally leap into the train as soon as the doors open, and when they instantly shut behind us I feel a wave of relief wash over me. It's only day one and I'm already sick of being pictured all the time. I'm a little thrown off balance as the train has already started to move at a high velocity.

Then I'm suddenly thrown into the second unknown room of the day. I realise after a few moments that it's one of our individual chambers. The room is the fanciest room I have ever been in my entire life. It actually makes the previous room look decrypt in comparison. I'm taken off guard when I notice that someone else is in the room, but soon register that it's my own reflection.

The dark eyes looking back at me appear tired and it's obvious I haven't slept well. My skin is unblemished, somewhat olive-tinted, but definitely not flawless and my hair has been darkened over the years of living in a district that specialises in coal production. I need to cut it soon. I have the hands of a worker, as the skin is calloused and damaged from the years I have spent overworking at home to compensate for my parents' previous state.

My chamber of current captivity has been provided with a bedroom, shower and dressing area. While my body is aching for the chance to rest up in the bed, I ignore my instincts and opt to taking advantage of the shower. I throw off my attire, then curse myself for forgetting about the precious pocket watch in my trouser pocket. I pick up the pocket watch and inspect it. No obvious damage done.

Maybe I've been struck with my first shot of luck today.

I step into the over-complex machine and press one of the countless buttons. Immediately I'm hit in the face with a burst of scolding liquid, and after cursing a few times to myself, I fully adjust to the temperature. _No doubt I'll feel that tomorrow._ Then, to my horror, a second shot of liquid assaults me. My eyes sting so intensely I'm guessing that the liquid was of a citrus element, and I'm soon drowning in the asphyxiating aroma of lemon. How on earth do these people tolerate with such strong odours?

Deciding not to tempt fate, I see my chance to jump out of the Demon Machine and towel dry the rest of the lemon crap off. I'm going to be smelling of that for days. I wrap the towel around my waist and wander towards the dressing area where an outfit has already been arranged for me. Fair enough, it saves me the trouble of having to decipher this machine as well.

I throw on the crisp white shirt that fits eerily well, then the trousers which are just as snug. A jacket and tie have also been provided. I take the jacket and ignore the tie. It's not as if I'm attending someone's wedding or funeral. The bane of my existence, also known as the lovely Effie Trinket, calls me for supper just as I'm fidgeting with the remaining button.

Ooh, supper.

Bet that's going to go well.

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And that's chapter three sorted. It's not as long as I would have liked it to be, but I'll fix that soon enough. Also, I know that in the book it never mentions having a mirror in the chambers, but I'm assuming that surely they could afford a mirror if they could splash out on all the other hyped up gadgets.

Let me know what you think. If there are other errors, please state them. Constructive criticism is better than nothing. Toodle-pip!


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